Those Dark and Difficult Years
by thatflightytemptress
Summary: Before Harry Potter went to Hogwarts, he lived with his Aunt and Uncle. But what might happen if his Aunt's home wasn't safe? Can Harry find a new home and family, when all the while he is being stalked by dangerous forces, who want the Boy Who Lived to pay? Will the same boy turn up at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, or has his life changed too much?
1. Suitably Tragic

Disclaimer: The wonderful, amazing, beautiful JK Rowling owns it all, except for the bits that other people own. I do this for kicks, not for money, and to share the love.

Those Dark and Difficult Years

Ch. 1 – Suitably Tragic

When Harry James Potter was five years old, he came to school with no shoes on. His cousin, Dudley, had hid them, and his uncle told him to stop whinging on about it.

He was in a big class, and was a quiet child. No-one noticed.

When he was six, he fainted in assembly because he hadn't eaten in three days. He had been locked in his cupboard all weekend for turning the dishwater purple.

His aunt told the school he was going through a 'phase'.

When Harry James Potter was seven years old, one Monday he came to school with a broken arm.

As you might have gathered, Harry did not live with his _worthless_ parents. They had died and he had been _foisted_ on his Aunt and Uncle.

It could have continued like this. Harry Potter could have grown-up unloved, unwanted, and a little black and blue. His childhood would have been suitably tragic, and Joseph Campbell might have included him in _The_ _Hero with a Thousand Faces_ as a case study. He might even have become a Slytherin.

Perhaps if Vernon Dursley hadn't drunk nearly as much, and if Petunia had been a little bit more assertive about the welfare of her nephew, Harry would have stayed with them, unhappy, undernourished, but as normal as could be hoped in the circumstances.

But these were dark and difficult years, and not even Albus Dumbledore, with his _Greater Good,_ could ignore the plight of the child.

This time, Harry was in luck. Someone noticed his broken arm. But the narrative likes to reassert itself. He still needed to grow up _suitably tragic_.

His aunt and uncle had failed to take him to hospital to have it set. When questioned, little Harry admitted that he broke it on Saturday afternoon. He wouldn't tell anyone how.

His class teacher noticed in PE when he started crying. Harry rarely cried.

Mrs Hall, of class 3H, was concerned. She had just come back from a teacher-training course, and was very aware of the 'signs', as they were known.

She called in Vernon and Petunia Dursley.

She didn't like what they had to say. '_No little boy should be called a freak.'_

Social Services were informed, and began to observe the Dursley home. Harry was put on the '_at-risk'_ register.

Three months later, Harry was removed from the home. An elderly neighbour, Arabella Figg, had called in the report that she had seen Vernon Dursley hit the child across the face in a local park.

Harry told his Social Worker that he was a bad boy, and a _freak_. And that he'd like to live somewhere else, _please_. And that he had been sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs.

The Dursley's, of number four, Privet Drive, were taken to court, and Vernon Dursley was given a two-year prison sentence. Petunia Dursley was given a six-month suspended sentence. It was reported in the local paper, the _Little Whinging & Tadfield Advertiser, _although the names were kept out of it. Their son, Dudley, stayed in the family home with his mother, and his Aunt Marge.

Harry was moved into emergency foster care in Guildford. It was only to be for a few days..

It was the tail end of November, that time of year when the bite of winter has really taken hold and the colours of the autumn had faded to the dirty, grim hue of crushed brown leaves and shivering bare branches. Lyn Jordan dug in the drawer for her gloves, extracting a fragment of last year's tinsel and a half-written Christmas card to her eldest. Brushing the debris aside, Lyn sighed and began to pin her greying hair back. '_I sigh too much these days,_' she mused '_must be getting old_'.

It was bleak in Guildford. As Lyn waited at a bus stop, she watched a dog do its business on a lamppost, as its owner looked the other way. Some kids from the local secondary, _St George's_, chatted on the other side of the road, bundled up against the cold.

'_This is the last time_' she thought, as her bus approached.

When Surrey County Council Social Services department called Lyn Jordan to enquire if she could take in a seven-year-old boy, _no special needs, no siblings, emergency placement_, she agreed. She had taken in a lot of children in the past, with her husband Edward, but they were both getting older, so she decided that she would only do in short-term placements now.

She looked down at the small boy in his brand new duffle coat and oversized shoes, sitting by himself in the office of the South West Area Social Services department.

'_They wouldn't have looked out of place on a circus clown,' _she reflected_ 'or a homeless person.'_

His thin face had a pinched, anxious look that she was only too familiar with. She knelt down in front of him, and shook his hand.

"Hello dearie, you can call me Auntie Lyn" she began, by way of an introduction. The look of horror on the boy's, _Harry's, _face would have been enough – the warning glance from his social worker was unnecessary. Lyn Jordan quickly rethought her strategy. '_Had enough of aunts, I suspect_'. She caught sight of herself in the darkening window, hair greying, face wrinkled, but eyes still kind, and sighed.

"Well, love, you must be Harry, and I'm your Nana Lyn. You're going to come and stay with me and Grandpa Edward for a little bit, while we get things sorted for you at home, if that's ok with you.."

As Harry Potter nodded, and gave a shy smile, Nana Lyn she became.

'_Nana Lyn is a mystery'_

Harry pondered this as he held her hand on the bus.

Mystery was a word he liked. He'd heard it at school, and spent all weekend trying to learn how to spell it. He'd not had much else to do, as the adults were all ignoring him, talking in angry whispers, and taking frantic phone calls.

And here he was now, going to stay with Nana Lyn.

'_I thought I didn't have a Nana and Grandpa'_

Nana Lyn stood up to get off, and Harry followed her, clutching tightly to her with one hand, and to his bin bag full of clothes with the other. They didn't walk far, just to a small house with an even smaller front garden, and a blue door.

"This is us, Harry dear" said Nana Lyn as she prodded him through the front door. "My Edward will be back soon enough, he just popped out to get something special for tea and a treat for you."

They went upstairs, to a small landing with four doors leading off it. Harry counted them. The interior looked like it had been frozen in the last decade, with an off-white wallpaper and worn carpet. The paint was flaking of the banisters and the skirting board, and the doors to each room were slightly mismatched.

Harry liked it.

Nana Lyn opened the nearest door, and motioned inside. "Now this is the loo, and there's a bath in there as well, and we'll get you a stool so you can reach the sink by yourself". Harry had barely glanced in the room before the hand on his shoulder had twirled him around.

"And here is mine and Edward's room" she motioned again, "you just come and get us if you need anything at night". Harry stared at the closed door. Never before had he been allowed to disturb a grown-up at night. Only Dudley could do that.

They skipped the next door, with Nana Lyn muttering "'s'only the airing cupboard dear, nothing you need in there".

"And this," she announced at the final door, "Is your room. We'll put your name on the door." Harry shuffled inside, not sure what to expect. It wasn't big, but it wasn't tiny either. The carpet was a faded green, and the walls were white, with a few children's drawing's pinned up. There was a wardrobe, a single bed, and a small chest of drawers. Harry took this all in with barely a glance, his attention caught by the one thing he'd always dreamed of having.

A window.

He raced across the room, dropping his bag of clothes, all shyness forgotten. Nana Lyn chuckled.

"This is your bed, deary" he heard Nana Lyn say from behind him, as she hung up his school uniform in the wardrobe.

The garden was square and green, with a tangle of shrubs at one end. There was a shed, with goal posts painted on one side, and an old plastic swing leaning drunkenly against it. Harry was in awe.

"I expect that you've had quite enough to be going on with today, Harry, hmm? We'll just settle in here and have tea in a bit, and tomorrow I'll pop you into town and we'll go to M&S and get you some new togs.."

Harry turned as she spoke, and clutched his coat to him _'But I've got a new coat, what else do I need?'_

Nana Lyn went on, oblivious to his confusion. "Luckily your social worker gave me a clothes voucher for you, and we'll get you some nice shoes as well" she continued, "And then on Wednesday you can get back to school with your friends."

The front door opened and the vinegary smell of fish and chips hit Harry. His mouth had already begun to water. Lunch had been _ages_ ago.

"Oh, that must be Edward back. Let's get down for some tea then, love" Nana Lyn turned to go out the door, "are you coming?"

Harry froze, still kneeling by the window.

"Is it all… for me?" he whispered.


	2. The Smallest Things

Disclaimer: The wonderful, amazing, beautiful JK Rowling owns it all, except for the bits that other people own. I do this for kicks, not for money, and to share the love.

Those Dark and Difficult Years

Ch. 2 – The Smallest Things

Harry Potter stretched out on his bed. The light from the landing spilled past his bedroom door, open just a jar 'so you can hear us downstairs, dear'. It was a lovely bed to have. The mattress was just slightly lopsided, but the sheets were soft, and his duvet had dinosaurs on it. His big toe found a hole in the sheet, and Harry grinned into his pillow. _His own room_.

"… And then the dear ask me if it was all for him, and I told him that he'd have to share his dinner with us, if he didn't mind..." Soft laughter floated up the staircase to Harry's room. _His room. _"Bless the little lad, he never had a room to himself before, not a proper one."

"Nice lad, bit shy though..." came a deeper voice. "Promised him we'd have a kick-around in the garden tomorrow" '_Grandpa Edward'_ thought Harry with another smile '_said he'd take me to the park._'

"Any news about his family?" the deeper voice enquired "any idea how long..?" The voices were cut off by the sound of a door closing downstairs. Harry lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. '_I hope I can stay here for ever and ever' _he thought '_I don't ever want to go back to the Dursleys...'_

* * *

"Ah, is this the lad you've told me so much about?" said Edward Jordan to his wife, with a smile. "Pleased to meet you." Edward knelt down, ignoring the creak in his knees, to look the boy in the face. Edward was older than his wife, and had recently begun to use a stick on colder days. He had a shock of white hair, a curled moustache, and the kindest eyes Harry had seen on any adult, save Nana Lyn. The fish and chips he'd brought for dinner were sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting to be unwrapped and served, but, despite their most delicious smell, Harry only had eyes for the man who had brought them, and the bag he had in his left hand.

"This is your Grandpa Edward," said Nana Lyn as she carried a pile of plates over to the table. Edward sent his wife a quizzical look, but knew better than to question the change from tradition. Lyn, he knew, always got it right with the kids. "Grandpa Edward, this is Harry Potter. He's come to stay for a little bit."

A soft "Hello" came from Harry, who still only had eyes for the bag in Grandpa Edward's hand. Then, unable to contain his curiosity, he burst out "is that for me?"

A clinking behind the pair of the indicated that Lyn had finished laying the wooden table, and a rustle of paper and fresh burst of their vinegary aroma told Harry that his meal was waiting for him.

"After your tea, dear. Grandpa Edward will give you your present then." came Lyn's voice, although her tone suggested that she was not entirely resolute. The boy was, quite possibly, the sweetest one she'd met in a while, including her grandchildren, little horrors as they were.

"Ah, love, take pity on him." was Edward's reply. "I've never seen eyes so wide. I'm sure he can wait til after he's eaten to play with it, even if he gets it now." And, with Nana Lyn's mutterings about "spoiling the child", Harry received, from his new Grandpa, a shiny white football.

Harry was beyond words. He took the ball and held it to his chest, beaming around the warm kitchen. His own football. To go with his own room.

Later, as they watched the little boy kick his ball against the side of the shed, scoring goal after goal, waving to the cheering fans that only he could see, and basking in the rapturous applause only he could hear, Harry's new family sighed as one. "It's the smallest things," whispered Lyn to her husband, "that can fill a child heart with happiness. A full tummy, a warm bed, a cuddle, and a little bit of love…"

"Ay, tha' and a new football" replied Edward, with a grin. He knew what lads liked.

* * *

After a bath (as he had got rather muddy when he won the World Cup for England in the garden), and a clean pair of pyjamas, Harry Potter went to bed with a warm glass of milk, and a story about a bear from his Nana. '_Please look after this bear. Thank you.'_ When his Nana and Grandpa went to check on him a little later, he was fast asleep, with a great grin on his face, and his arms curled around his new football.

* * *

Harry's feet were hurting, and he was bored. Why did Nana Lyn think he needed pants and shoes and trousers and vests? They left Marks and Spencer's loaded with bags, and the lady in the shop had given Harry the biggest smile and said he was a darling little boy. Harry thought she had far too many teeth, and they were very, very white. He didn't like it.

They'd gone to the park 'to have a breather' as Nana Lyn had said, and Harry was having a swing by himself. He'd wanted to bring his football, but Nana had said they couldn't carry it, which he supposed was right, but there weren't any other children there at all. There was a woman with a dog, and woman with a baby, and a woman with a baby _and _a dog. Not much fun, really. Nana Lyn, it appeared, had dropped off to sleep, which Harry was grateful for, as it might mean that there was no time for the haircut she'd threatened him.

Taking a second look around the park, his trainers trailing in the dirt beneath the swing, Harry saw that there was indeed someone else in the park, but it wasn't another boy. It was a grown-up, a man, who didn't have a baby or a dog with him, which seemed very suspicious to Harry. Suspicious was another word he'd learnt recently, from eavesdropping on his social worker. The man, who had a threadbare coat and jeans almost as faded as Harry's, was walking towards Harry purposefully. Harry glanced back at Nana Lyn, who was still snoring. He knew, because he was a clever boy, that strange men who came to talk to you in parks were _bad. _Harry, however, waited, because he was curious, and he knew that he could run very quickly, and that he could bite the strange man if he wasn't nice. He'd done that before.

"Hello Harry" said the man. "My name is Remus. I knew your mum and dad when you were just a baby. I wanted to talk to you about your new home."

* * *

"Nana Lyn?" Harry asked as they sat on the bus on the way home, watching the trees go by. "Were my parents magic?"

She chuckled softly. "Well, aren't you an odd duck," Lyn looked over at the little boy sitting next to her, and smiled. "I never met them, love, so I don't know. I expect they were wonderful people who loved their baby very much."

Harry looked back out the window. "That's not what I meant," he mumbled.

* * *

As snow swirled around the high stone tower that held the headmaster's office, and covered the grounds of Hogwarts School in an icy blanket, Albus Dumbledore re-read the letter that the tawny owl had just brought. On his desk, a spindly silver instrument whirred pleasantly, occasionally letting off contented little _pings_. "The child seems to be doing well in his new home," he said to the woman sitting across from him. "Remus writes that the boy expounded at length about his new football, but apparently has no knowledge of his parents, or our world."

"And is that enough?" the woman replied in a worried tone. "New toys rather than the protection of his mother's blood? If anyone was to raise concerns over the child's previous home, it would be me, but I cannot help but worry over his safety now. He may be happy, but we certainly do not want him to be happy, and ignorant, and dead."

In a corner, a flame coloured bird let out a long, low note. It sounded odd, as the occupants turned to face the tiny creature in the corner, to hear such a sound to come out of such a young bird. Then again, you may tell the age of a phoenix not by it's countenance, but by it's eyes.

"I think, Minerva," said Albus Dumbledore, turning back to his deputy, "that it is sometimes the smallest things that do the most harm to a child, if we overlook them again and again. Our peace of mind comes at a terrible price for young Harry."

The wind rattled the windowpanes, and the former headmasters and mistresses of the great school snoozed in their portraits.

"Please excuse me, Minerva, but I must write to the Minister. If Harry Potter is to live with muggles, he will need someone to watch over him. The boy is not safe yet."

* * *

"I don't want to go" came the shrill voice again, from the top of the stairs. "I don't want to see Dudley, I don't want to go". Harry Potter was standing in his polo shirt, school jumper, and underpants. His face was screwed up with determination, and his fists clenched by his side. This was the first tantrum he had pulled since he was very small, and he was going to put all his effort into it. He'd had years of observing Dudley manipulate his parents to learn from, and was doing a damn fine job of it.

The effect was lessened, somewhat, by the fact that both his Nana and Grandpa were well used to children not wanting to go to school, and had witnessed a thousand tantrums in their time.

"Harry, love, I know that you're worried about seeing your cousin, and it's ok to be frightened of having to go back to school again now everything has changed," came his Nana's calm tone from downstairs "but that's no reason to throw your trousers out the window."

Grandpa Edward had to hide his smile. "Now Harry, my lad, don't you fret about anything. Your Nana Lyn is going to take you in to see your teacher, and at the end of the day she will be waiting to pick you up and we'll all have tea here, and maybe play a game, hmmm?" Harry nodded. "Your cousin won't give you any fuss. Pop your trousers back on, and jump in the car. Sometimes we all have to do things we don't want to, or do things that make as scared and worried, but things aren't as bad as they seem, especially if you are very brave."

Lyn's voice carried from the kitchen, where she was preparing a packed lunch for Harry, "I don't know where you get half of that stuff, Edward Jordan, but it sounds very wise." She came out, carrying a plastic box and a bottle of juice. "It's times like this that I remember why I married you."

"You know," said Edward to his wife as the little boy climbed into the car "it is sometimes the smallest things that take the greatest deal of courage."

* * *

Lucius Malfoy leant back in his chair, swirling his merlot around in the glass. He glanced lazily at the fire, where the crackling logs made sparks jump and the flames flickered. "Tell me again what you heard about the boy," he said lazily to the man leaning on the mantle.

The only light came from the fire, and much of the dark wooded room was in shadow. The wind whistled outside, as the storm, which had begun in Scotland, moved it's way southwards, towards London. If you needed an example of pathetic fallacy, this would be it. Dark weather for dark deeds.

"There are rumours, Lucius, that the Boy Who Lived has been moved away from his muggle relatives. He is vulnerable. I heard tell at the Ministry that a wizarding family in Kent has taken him in." The figure spoke softly, but there was a definite undertone to his voice that suggested barely controlled rage simmered beneath the surface.

The figure in the second armchair, which had remained in shadow until the moment, leant forwards so that the flames danced across his face. "I don't believe it to be the case at all, my friend." His voice carried utmost contempt, which, unlike his companion, he did not bother to disguise. "He is in the care of muggles, but Dumbledore is preparing protection for him even as we speak. I heard it from the Minister myself."

"From his wife, more like" came the first voice again.

Lucius continued to stare into the flames. It seemed that he had, somehow, not heard any of this information, for he did not react for some time. Eventually he spoke. "Perhaps, then, it is time to contact Severus. Test the waters, if you will. He may know something that we don't, licking Dumbledore's boots as he has been for the past five years..."

Nefarious plans were, indeed, afoot.


	3. The Swelling Tempest

Disclaimer: The wonderful, amazing, beautiful JK Rowling owns it all, except for the bits that other people own. I do this for kicks, not for money, and to share the love.

Author's note: Sorry this update took a while - the chapter has been half finished on my laptop for over a week, but I've just started back at University, I have to write my dissertation and run a society. That, and learn Arabic. Bit hectic. Good news is, for every 2000 of my dissertation I write, I shall produce 2000 words of this. Good news for my academic supervisor, that is..

Those Dark and Difficult Years

Ch. 3 – The Swelling Tempest

It was February, and the biting cold of November, which had heralded snow on the horizon, had not produced a white Christmas in Surrey, to the disappointment to a thousand children. The ground was still dull and frozen, however, and there was very little prospect of an early spring. The flowers, like any sensible being, had stayed in the shelter of the earth, with not even a snowdrop to show any prospect of life renewed. The people, who moved like stiff, faceless ghosts through the foggy early morning, were so wrapped in scarves, hats and gloves, that they were indistinguishable from one another. The only sign of life came from the clouds of white-misted breath that arose from their chilled faces.

It was a grey and uninspiring day. Early morning commuters grumbled as one as they brought out the de-icer, and slipped down driveways laden as they were with scalding cups of tea and briefcases. If you were to venture through the streets, chances are that you might here, more than once, complaints about the unseasonable cold, the incompetence of the local council and their road gritting duties, and even more school closures. Radios echoed from the cars stuck in traffic jams after another overwrought parent had slid off the road during the hastily aborted school run. Cheery pop music was deadened by the wind, and even the up-beat DJs seemed less lively than usual. In a thousand kitchens, the steady, serious tones of a news broadcast came with warnings about ice on the roads, the affairs of the famous, and a dull, far-off conflict that nobody cared about any more, whilst children whined and parents fussed.

Nobody had a right to be happy in this formidable February morning. The world seemed to conspire against the South of England, and it's luckless inhabitants. This, however, did nothing to quell the excitement of the seven year old boy who's face was pressed to flat up against his window that you might think that his nose had frozen to it's chilly planes.

His room had transformed over the previous months, as it became more apparent that his stay was not as temporary as everyone had first believed. Christmas had, of course, left it's mark, and the toys strewn about the floor, a stack of books on the windowsill, and the new shoes peaking out from under the bed bore testament to a slightly spoiled little boy who was not very good at putting things away after he had finished playing with them.

His most recent venture was a partially constructed Egyptian death mask in the middle of the floor, to match the pictures of pyramids in yellow and orange crayon stuck on the walls, and the book tucked under his pillow about mummies.

A voice from the kitchen pulled him away from the window rather reluctantly. He bounced downstairs with the exuberant energy that only a child can produce in the morning, and skidded into the kitchen, narrowly missing the table. To the casual observer, it appeared that the boy had darted through the corner of the table but that, of course was impossible. Anyway, the only observer had other things on her mind.

"Harry, what have I told you about socks?" an exasperated Nana Lyn sighed, with the resignation of someone very much used to this routine, "you need two, dear." As Harry munched his toast, getting Marmite on his chin, Lyn fished around in the washing machine, locating two, almost matching, socks. "Put these on, you, and then out to door," she continued, chivvying Harry out.

As they set off in the Jordan's aging car, Harry chatted away, apparently continuing a previous conversation. "And did you know, they worshiped cats!? I like cats, but sometimes they scratch, which isn't nice, you're not supposed to scratch people, Mr Mills told me that, can we get a cat? And they had a funny writing called hirog.. hera… glifficis.. and we're going to go and see it at the museum.." Lyn glanced at the boy in the backseat through the rear-view mirror. He barely even stopped for breath.

Waiting for the lights to change, Lyn hummed absentmindedly along to a song she'd heard on the radio the night before. Harry, strapped safely in the back, persevered at his rather one-sided conversation.

"And then at the end of term we're going to go to the museum to see real live mummies!"

"You said, dear." Lyn replied, as she changed gear.

"Can I tell Remus?"

"Hmm?" An overtaking bus sprayed the side of the care with brown slush.

"Remus, can I tell Remus?" Harry persisted.

"Tell him what?" Lyn waited for her turn at the roundabout, careful on the icy road.

"About the Egyptians, and going to the museum" Harry's excitement bubbled over again, as he drew pyramids in the steamed-up windows, and attempted a cat.

"You want to tell your Social Worker about the Egyptians? Well, if you want to." The conversation ended there, and the rest of the journey was mainly uneventful. They were still late for school.

* * *

"And what have you been doing this week?" The taller man led the boy over to the duck pond that was, unsurprisingly, empty. The park was deserted, aside from the elderly lady snoozing on a bench. Bare branches and muddy paths tended to put even the most determined children off playing, much to the relief of their parents.

Harry trotted along, dribbling his football and trailing his long scarf behind him. In his mind, he was, today, Ray Wilkins, England captain and hero to a thousand boys.

"Look what I can do, Remus!" he called back as he sped ahead. Attempting to drive the ball between two nearby trees, a look of concentration came over his face as it sailed away from its intended destination as a gust of wind took it too far left, towards the pond. Extraordinarily, the ball swerved to the right, contrary to the wind, and flew between the makeshift goals.

Harry turned to Remus with a grin on his face. "We're going to a museum, in London, to see real Egyptian stuff! Have you been there?" Remus caught up with him and leaned against the nearest tree, observing the undisturbed water of the murky pond.

"I don't know, Harry" he replied, slowly. "There are many museums in London, both magical and muggle, and even I haven't been to them all." This caught the boy's interest.

"Did the Egyptians have magic too?"

And so they passed the afternoon, kicking the ball about and discussing if it was really possible for cats to talk.

* * *

There were three men in the office, and two of them would rather have preferred if there had only been two. The third was quite amused by the whole situation. The sounds of the school were dying away as the children prepared for bed, and a sleepy silence filled the halls. Fawkes, now vibrant and regal as only a firebird can be, snoozed on his perch. The ticking of a distant clock and the drip of rain from the window ledge carried the heartbeat and rhythm of the school.

"Harry is doing well, and seems to be getting along fine with his foster parents. There is not much to say, although I'm not convinced that he can stay there permanently, with the situation as it is." Remus leant forward as he delivered his report, twisting his hands in his lap, betraying an anxiety that he could not quite voice.

The figure standing in the corner leant lazily against the wall, his dark hair sweeping across his face. His tone, as ever, remained sardonic. "I still think it was foolish to tell the boy about our world already. He might let anything slip to those muggles."

"It is his world too. He has a right to know where he comes from" the first man replied.

"And I suppose you are the one to take him in, Lupin? Raise him as your little cub. Would you bite him as soon as you got him back to your house, or wait until he started Hogwarts?"

The werewolf's hands tightened on his knees, knuckles visibly whitening. His voice, however, remained calm. "That was uncalled for, _Snape_. I care for Harry and want him to have a safe home, a loving home. He deserves that, at least."

The rain drummed more loudly against the pane, and from far bellow came the muffled sound of teenagers arguing. None of this perturbed the man sitting behind the desk, twirling his beard around his finger with an unnecessary level of attention. "And whatever he might say will probably be dismissed as the imagining of a child. Do not worry about it, Severus."

If possibly, Severus Snape became even more acerbic. He had, after all, just had to teach fifth year potions to a motley crew of Gryffindors and Slytherins, not one of which seemed to be able to tell one end of a wand from the other, let alone differentiate between puffer fish eyes and black peppercorns. The resultant mess had been confounding. "I am hardly worried, Albus. Frankly, I could not care less. I have no idea why you invited me to this little.. conference."

Over the muttering of the portraits, 'What cheek!', The Headmaster became serious once more, "You are here, my boy, because Remus reported to me that there is a possible breach in Harry's security. He is to go into London, in a few weeks, and it will not be possible to protect him as thoroughly when he is away from his home and school." Albus Dumbledore leaned over to open a letter that had been placed under an inkpot. "I've written to the Auror office, but I would like you to make inquires amongst your old acquaintances."

"I have no desire whatsoever to ingratiate myself with those people. My reputation is tarnished enough as it is, I hardly want to be seen associating with accused Death Eaters." Both men seemed to have forgotten the third man, who was watching the exchange with interest. "Before Severus, you had fewer qualms. And besides, I am asking you to talk to acquitted Death Eaters. Discreetly. Not to walk into Azkaban."

The room seemed to darken, although the candles remained lit, flickering in their holders. The wind picked up, and could be heard howling through the grounds.

"Before, we were at war, Headmaster. Things were different." Severus Snape shrunk back into the wall, looking for all the world like a defeated man. "You cannot ask me to do it again. Not now."

Turning his gaze to Remus Lupin, who busied himself with the letter Dumbledore had passed over to him, he spoke first to the man in front of him. "Does the Minister's reply alleviate your fears, Remus?"

"She seems confident in the ability of the DMLE to protect Harry. I am not so sure. The department is not a sound as she seems to think" came the response. Lupin twisted his hands anxiously again.

Dumbledore sighed, resignedly, and turned to his Potion's Master. "I think then, that this is a conversation that should continue another time. Just consider it, for now, Severus."

* * *

It was the end of a long day at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The windows had been charmed to let in a watery sunlight, and the newly created flock of memos flew half-heartedly around the ceiling, seemingly lost. One owl remained, after the decision had been made to replace them as in-office communications tool, and it was perched on top of a filing cabinet with a mean look in it's yellow eyes. The staff of the Auror office had nicknamed it Millicent, after the Minister for Magic, but they could have called it You-Know-Who, for all the difference it made. The owl simply refused to move, or deliver post. It was speculated that it ate the flying memos by the newer staff. The old and grizzled Aurors knew that it ate the fingers of those foolish enough to disturb its lair.

As the various DMLE staff went their separate ways, some home, and some straight to the pub, Walden Macnair moved slowly across the room, his eyes searching the desks. His day was just beginning, and he had work to do.

If Gawain Robards, junior Auror, had been a little more attentive, it might have been all right, and Macnair would not have found what is was he so sedulously sought. That morning, however, Gawain had argued with his wife, for the first time since their wedding a fortnight previously. He left the office in a hurry, and left the letter he was supposed to be filing for Amelia Bones on his desk, under a cold cup of tea that was beginning to congeal. So, as Gawain headed first to Diagon Alley to buy flowers, and then to the Leaky Cauldron for a stiff drink, before Apparating to his front door, Walden Macnair slipped a rather important letter detailing the security arrangements of one Harry James Potter into the pocket of his cloak, and left the Ministry of Magic without a backwards glance.

* * *

The clouds begin to gather as a storm approaches. For now, it is still far over the horizon, but every moment it draws nearer, the wind bringing whispers of deceit, and traitors, and plots, and the crackle of danger with the lightening.


End file.
